


Someone Else's Dream

by emmaliza



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: 90s fic, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Communication Failure, Complicated Relationships, Denial, Dramatic Irony, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masturbation, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 19:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: When Take That break up, it's not one of those smooth, amicable break-ups where everyone goes away a better person. It's messy, prolonged, and involves a lot of break-up sex.





	Someone Else's Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Help I fell into the Take That fandom and I can't get up. Title comes from "Never Forget."
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer: none of this ever happened, it's all just the product of my imagination.

The first time it happens is the night after Rob – leaves? gets fired? (Years later, Jason still couldn't honestly tell you which one it was) – and they're all lying in Markie's room, shellshocked. If any of them is worried about what they might be adding to the ever-churning rumour mill, it doesn't come up. Nice as this hotel room is they don't all fit on Mark's bed, not really, but they're trying, squashed together on satin sheets and clinging, like if they let go for a second another one of them is going to drift away.

Mark's eyes are red, and he keeps turning his face to hide it in Howard's shoulder, like he's hiding tears. None of them mention it, though How strokes his hair gently whenever it happens. Gary just stares up at the ceiling and swallows deeply. They're all feeling different things, presumably. Jason's not sure what he's feeling. He told Rob to go. For the most part, he's just relieved he doesn't have to worry about breaking his neck on stage anymore, but that seems cruel when he can feel Mark's nails digging into his shoulder – either holding on for dear life or trying to inflict pain, he's not sure of that either.

Gaz is flat as a board, lying to Jason's left, but he has his fingers threaded through Jason's own. Mark lies on the other side of Howard from Jason, the hand not digging into his skin clasping How's dreadlocks. “We'll be alright,” Howard mumbles in the middle, no conviction in his voice. “We'll be alright.”

It's probably Mark that starts it, curled up against Howard and leaning into his neck, kissing it while he's down there. Howard laughs. They've all kissed each other for a laugh a thousand times before, and maybe, maybe if they're still doing that, they really will be okay.

But when Mark raises his head again, it's not a joke. He stares at Howard, and then the rest of them, red-eyed, wide-eyed, desperate. Desperate for what exactly, who can say, but it's something Rob's not here to give him anymore.

Howard doesn't know what to do. Jason feels for him. That's just not in his nature. Eventually, it seems he settles on doing what he thinks Mark wants him to do – which is to pull him close, cup his jaw and kiss him properly.

Apparently, How guessed right. Jason hears Mark moan softly into his mouth the second it happens, and sighs with relief when those nails finally loosen their grip. Mark's hand immediately makes it's way down Jason shirt while he's still kissing Howard, and over Jason's shoulder, there's a small gasp.

Jason looks back and sees Gary, blushing furiously at the sight unfolding in front of him. Ever the prude, their Gaz. Jason squeezes his hand just an inch too tight. He might be shocked, but Gary Barlow always would do anything for his career, and for the moment that still means making them all think he loves them. (There must be a kinder explanation than that. But in the moment, Jason's too tired to think of it.) With a sigh Gary rolls on his side, his hand meeting Mark's over Jason's heartbeat.

It's funny - for everything that's ever been said about them none of them have ever touched each other like this before (as far as he knows anyway), and they opt to do it now, now the single most forward member of the group is gone. When Mark pulls breathlessly away from Howard, leans across to press his mouth on Jason's instead, Jason feels (the first of what will prove to be many over the years) a wave of overwhelming guilt. _I did this,_ he thinks. _I told him to go._

It should prove something, doing this here and now. It should be a promise, a reiteration of their bond, a vow that Take That shall carry on, even without Robbie. But when they're all finished and they've smothered their sobs beneath the noise of their orgasms, the bed, cramped as it is, just seems cold and empty without him.

* * *

Mark spends a lot of time in the other boys' rooms after that. He sees Howard's broad grin whenever he shows up, trying to hide his pity. How's a better liar than the rest of them. Mark knows they all pity him, and it's kind of annoying, but at the same time, he doesn't wish they'd stop.

 _Besides_ , he thinks with more bitterness than anyone (especially himself) would think cute little Mark Owen is capable of, _it's not like they're not getting anything out of it_.

Howard squeezes him tight when Mark shows up at his door, and Mark winces as the dreadlocks smack against his shoulder. How is too bloody tall to hug properly, but he tries, because that's who he is. Then Howard shuts the door behind him and Mark shudders a little in his arms, afraid, excited, and more than anything confused. He doesn't know how things wound up like this.

Gary is perched on the end of the bed, giving Mark a small nod, an even smaller smile – that's about as much emotion as he shows these days. Mark grins before sitting down next to him and leaning over to give him a casual kiss on the cheek. He and Gaz have kissed a lot in these past few weeks, both on stage and off, and he's starting to lose track of how far he can push in each circumstance. Maybe, if he really just went for it sometime, in public with all those cameras flashing, he'd embarrass Gaz enough to make him a little less icy.

(Christ, he sounds like Rob.)

He and Howard were watching some Spanish soap before he came in, without subtitles, so Mark can only glean the barest amount about what's going on but he does think the main character's pet bird is pretty. They don't bother turning it off before things get started; before Howard is peeling his own shirt off while Gary is finally returning Mark's kiss, burying his face in the crook of his neck and dragging his lips up the tendons there slowly. He's still a bit hesitant about all this, their Gaz. But he always goes along with it, because deep down, Mark suspects he just wants everyone to love him. He's a bit like Rob that way.

Mark winces.

He ends up in Howard's lap, naked from the waist down, moaning and gasping as he wiggles his bare arse against the older boy's cock. He knows he must look like something out of a gay porno (hardly a first for them), but it doesn't matter, because nobody's watching, right? (God he hopes not.) How groans as his prick slips between the cheeks of Mark's arse, rubbing it over Mark's hole, probably thinking it's as small and sweet as the rest of him. Meanwhile, Gary has his hand wrapped loosely around Mark's cock, working it with a look of utter seriousness, digging his teeth into his bottom lip like he does when he's slumped over his piano, figuring out a particularly devious middle eight. Mark means to tease him for it, for treating a simple handjob like such back-breaking labour, but somehow the words never come out.

Mark cries out softly when Howard's cock, somehow slicked with lube when he wasn't looking, starts to slowly push inside him. “Is that alright?” How asks with a gentle kiss to his neck, and Mark nods automatically before he's really had time to think over whether it is. It isn't the first time though, and while it seems a bit of a cliché that small pretty Mark would be getting the one actually getting fucked in the middle of their strange sordid arrangement, but well, it does feel good when Howard's cock bottoms out inside him, and Mark moans, throwing his head back shamelessly and still looking like a gay porn star, but you know, he does that anyway (some of their early videos, he might technically _be_ a gay porn star).

Gary says nothing, just pants and licks his lip, leaning forward so he can wank Mark off faster, thumb tracing along Mark's head while he watches Howard's cock pushing in and out. Mark almost wants to grab his hair and pull him down further; he wants Gary to suck him off while Howard fucks him from behind, but he doesn't think Gaz ever would. He wouldn't risk damaging his voice.

(Does he think that, or does Rob? He doesn't know anymore. He likes Gaz, really he does, apart from all the times he doesn't. But Gaz isn't Gaz those times, he's Mr. Barlow, or Captain Barlow, or whatever Rob's calling him this week. Mark, Mark loves Gaz, but Mark loves everyone. He doesn't really know Gaz. They've kissed more than they've ever actually talked.)

Part of him wonders where Jay's gotten to, but Jay does that sometimes; he manages to wander off even when Nige is keeping them under lock and key. Perhaps another part of Mark is relieved he's not there.

(Mark's not the sort of bloke to blame one person for something that's both everybody and nobody's fault, but if he was, he would blame Jason.)

There are fingers digging into his thighs as Howard starts to fuck him harder. The whole thing is lewd, obscene, and silent but for the sound of Mark's own moans. His head spins as he's caught between his two bandmates, being wound tighter and tighter, 'til he's ready to burst. _We just need to get through this tour_ , he thinks. They're all clinging to each other any way they can, afraid the band will fall apart the second they don't. Gaz and Howard's eyes meet each other's briefly over his shoulder, and Mark thinks they should be grateful to him for giving them this opportunity, for being so generous. But that's Mark Owen for you – always so nice.

Once the tour's done, then they'll figure it out, they'll know where to go from there. Mark's not sure if that thought fills him with relief, or dread.

Eventually, it's all too much. How pushes in _deep_ as Gary manages to twist his wrist just right, and Mark comes with a cry, messily too, some of it splashing up and onto Gaz's chin. That's something.

As he shudders and sighs and comes down, he thinks:  _Christ, I could use a drink._

* * *

He and Gary are arguing about something. What they're arguing about somehow escapes his notice, but since they all agreed the band should split up (or rather, the rest of them all agreed, and Howard just kept his mouth shut like a good boy) things have been so tense it might well be something stupid, like Howard left his clothes strewn across the hallway of their hotel or something.

Whatever it is, Gaz has gotten himself worked up into a right state over it, huffing and puffing like he used to in rehearsals (back when he cared about the band, and wasn't just waiting for it to end so he could go chase after greater things). And angry, Howard thinks:  _Fuck, what do you care? Year from now, you'll be too famous to even remember the rest of us!_

It's that thought that leads to him taking a brazen leap forward, grabbing Gary's hair and tugging hard enough to shut him up, before pressing his mouth down over the other boy's.

(If you can call yourself a boy at twenty seven. Hey, he's in a boy band, isn't he?)

Gary gives a yelp of surprise, his fingers scrabbling at Howard's t-shirt, but he soon gives in, kissing back with a groan. None of this is new, after all, it's been going on since – since Rob. Howard shoves him roughly, making him grunt when he lands flat on his back on the bed.

Howard climbs on top of him, watching Gary flinch at the dreads falling into his face. He pins Gaz down with one hand and then yanks his shirt apart, buttons popping everywhere and Gary protests but Howard's sure he can afford a new one. He takes a moment to examine the body underneath. Gary's been working out nigh-constantly for months, readying his body for his burgeoning solo career, and he looks good. But Howard misses the lovehandles, honestly, either because they were endearingly human on Gaz, or because they made him feel more like he had something to give the group that no-one else could, even if it was just his body. Who can say?

“'Ow,” Gaz whispers at him, and Howard feels him rock his hips upward, half-hard in tailored trousers and they kiss again. He sticks his tongue down Gary's throat - rough, demanding, dirty, yet still somehow needy. Gary's hands are all over his chest, legs around his waist, and somehow way too fast they're both naked, both moaning and writhing together and christ, if the press got ahold of this one they'd both be screwed, but at least they'd be about equally screwed.

(But, after all, one of them has a lot more to lose.)

They've stayed in this hotel dozens of times before, and Howard knows where they keep a little bottle of body lotion that he scrambles for alongside the condom in his back pocket. That'll have to do. He should be thinking straighter than this; he should be being slow, gentle, and at least bothering to use proper lube, because as much fooling around as they've all done, and while he's not the blushing prude he was when Howard first met him, he's pretty sure _this_ is still new to Gaz. But he can't stop long enough for all that.

Him and Gary are friends; he might be the only one of them Gaz thinks of as a friend, really. He more than anyone is properly pissed on Gaz's behalf, reading Rob's snide words in the paper. And yet, he kind of understands Rob too. He wants to _claim_ Gary. He wants to give him something that, no matter how famous he gets, when he's off conquering the world and probably only in the same country as the rest of them every few months, he won't ever forget.

Although why 'I fucked him' would be a greater claim to fame than 'I was in a band with him', who knows.

He has to pull back to roll the condom on, and he watches as Gary waits for him with red lips and spread legs. He looks confused. He looks nervous. He even looks a little scared. But he smiles, and Howard seizes his mouth once more before thrusting in.

Gary screams at first, and Howard bites his lip to shut him up, so the whole hotel won't hear (although maybe it doesn't matter if there are rumours; there have been rumours the whole time). They fuck rough and hard and heavy, Gary clinging to his back and sounding equal parts pained and pleasured, Howard pounding away to a steady beat, like the thumping bass of the clubs they used to play to. Gaz comes all over himself in messy, ugly streaks, surprisingly quiet. Howard, despite being more experienced, follows him not two seconds later, filling the condom with a loud groan.

Afterwards it's awkward, stilted, painful, as words don't come and Howard pulls out in a hurry, yanking the t-shirt back on, wanting to cover himself up. He can't do this. What 'this' is, no idea, but he can't do it. Maybe it's break up the band. He's not ready for it, he really isn't, and he feels pathetic – he's the oldest among them, he's pushing thirty, he shouldn't still want to be in a fucking boy band. But he can't let it go. Jay he thinks would be relieved not to be famous anymore, and Markie's so well-loved the world will always want him around, and Gary – Gary's so talented, how could he not do well?

But him? What does he have? Why would anyone give a shit about him if he wasn't 'Howard (or is it Jason?) from Take That'?

“Dougie?” Gary is still naked, dazed-looking, while Howard's on his feet and mostly dressed by now. Fuck, that nickname. Howard has no bloody idea where it came from, but still it's something Gaz gave him, something special, and he doesn't think he'll ever forget it. He hates the voice Gaz says it with. It makes him think of the nineteen year old kid who showed up at his door and shyly admitted the music he listened to wasn't recent enough, not according to management, so would Howard mind if they listened to some of his 'cooler' records together?

Howard loved that kid. He still loves that kid. He doesn't want to lose him. He's seen the way Mark mopes about without Robbie, and no thank you.

He needs to get out of here.

And so he just leaves Gaz there, like a total piece of shit. He wanders out into the streets and ends up on the banks of the Thames.

It's a close thing. It's a fucking close thing.

* * *

Okay, Gary Barlow literally wanking over the demise of Take That would be a headline writer's dream, but it sounds much worse than it is. It's just the emotions of the day, he tells himself as he locks the cubicle door and leans against the wall, panting, ignoring the fact he's not nineteen anymore and he probably lost his license to use that excuse for getting hard for no reason a few years ago. He's just feeling a lot: he's excited - not that sort of excited, just regular excited - but he's grieving, because this band has been a part of his life (this band has been his life) for the past six years and it's only natural to be sad, even if it's time. And he's–

He watches his prick jutting out from his smart new trousers, violent and obscene, and wrinkles his nose with distaste. He's meant to be out there answering questions though, he can hear cameras flashing and journalists whispering, and there's just no time to wait for it to go away. With sweaty fumbling fingers he forces his fly down, his left hand hurriedly grabbing a bunch of toilet paper, because he can't afford to make any mess here, not to spill a drop.

There's not anything in particular he's thinking about; he just wants to wank himself off as soon as possible, and will indulge whatever fantasy he needs to accomplish that goal. He has better things to do. Somehow his mind ends up on the rest of the boys, still waiting for him outside, and – okay, fine. He's had more sex with them in the last six months than anyone else anyway.

Gary tells himself it's just sex, a way four blokes found to keep each other sane through the (grinding, awful, hellish) past little while. He tells himself he won't miss it later, and when they all go their separate ways, he won't be giving anything up that important.

A dozen different dirty images flash through his mind all at once, and plenty of them he can't even remember if they ever happened or they're just dreams and fantasies, everything he'd never be brave to ask for (but to be fair, none of them have exactly been enthusiastic to _talk_ about it) – but it hardly matters now. Gary groans and strokes himself furiously is he thinks about watching Jay slowly strip his shirt off, as if they hadn't all seen him half-naked a thousand times before ( _I suppose they had to make me feel bad about my body one last time,_ he thinks with a snort). He remembers Mark's smiley little mouth, slick and wet and lewd as sin as he wrapped it around Howard's cock (Gary would never admit it, but he felt a little jealous watching that, and not of Howard). Howard, Gary can still feel the bruises on his thighs, fingers digging into his skin as Howard ploughed right into him. He bites his lip until he tastes blood, because he can't let anyone hear him moaning. They've not talked about that night, like they've not talked about any of the nights, and Gary tells himself it doesn't bother him, the way How just left him there after. It's all just sex, after all. He's had plenty of sex, even if he was still sort of half a virgin.

But somehow, the longer he keeps it up the more he finds he's not thinking about the boys waiting for him outside at all. It's the other one. Robbie, who he's never touched (outside hazy, half-recalled dreams). Robbie, who he hasn't seen all year. Robbie, who's out there telling anyone who'll fucking listen how much he hates Gary, he always hated Gary, they were never even friends. That one.

Gary reads all the headlines, and – it doesn't bother him, because after all, Rob's just desperate. He knows he can't make it on his own, and so he's trying to tear Gary down because it's one way to keep his name in the papers. It doesn't worry Gary. It doesn't _hurt_.

He groans and tightens his fist around his cock, not willing to let the erection that caused him all this trouble abandon him now. Still, the thought of Rob sobers him a bit. It drags him out of the fantasy, and reminds him what he's doing, wanking all alone in a bathroom stall. It's dirty and it's pathetic. But he just needs to get it over with, and then he can go do what he's meant to.

It's Rob he's thinking about as he pushes himself over the edge, Rob he hears whispering in his ear, smug and furious: _I'll get you in the end, Barlow._

(Years later, and for years after, Gary will wonder if he lost something in this moment; if a piece of his soul didn't fall out of his cock, or his quivering mouth.)

Gary comes with a smothered groan, enough spilling from the toilet paper that he has to wipe it off his hand. Hurriedly he flushes it away, wanting to discard the evidence as soon as possible. Then he leans back against the wall, gasping for breath as his pulse races.

He's not afraid. He can't be afraid. What does he have to be afraid of?


End file.
